


Bedrest

by cathrheas



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Hand Jobs, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nipple Play, Sickfic, but it is horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathrheas/pseuds/cathrheas
Summary: Cyril catches a cold. Shamir views him in a new light.
Relationships: Cyril/Shamir Nevrand
Kudos: 15





	Bedrest

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to [follow me on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/cathrheas)

When Shamir entered Cyril’s room, she stood at his door for a few minutes, simply looking down at the outline of his body in his bed. He was curled into himself, a ball of blankets, reducing his growing stature to that of a little boy. In his sleep, he tossed, then turned, then groaned a little under his breath, presumably from discomfort.

She hadn’t seen him like this in years.

He had come down with an awful cold shortly after he arrived at the monastery, and Shamir had felt—not an  _ obligation _ to him, per se, but she felt that it was her duty to at least check in on him. She remembered walking into his room and watching his tiny face crinkle as he struggled to recognize her, then relaxing when he did. She didn’t know anything about how to take care of a child, so she had brought him herbal tea like she would have made for herself, and left it at his bedside. Back then, she didn’t know what else to do. He seemed lonely, but touching him or saying anything too sweet or motherly was uncomfortable for her.

They had grown a bit closer over the years, though, and she felt justified in walking up to his bedside and sitting down near him. He was laying on his side, facing away from her, still making sad little noises into the empty air. His voice sounded pitched up, despite having grown deeper over the years. Shamir wasn’t sure what had changed in her, but she couldn’t help reaching out to lay a hand on his forehead.

He had a fever. She had brought tea, just like she had back then, although it seemed like he wouldn’t even want to drink it, he was already so hot. Still, Shamir put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. 

She might’ve been too rough; he startled. “Sorry,” she said.

“Shamir?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh...” After he eliminated the possibility of a threat, he laid back down, shutting his eyes. Was he really going to just go back to sleep without saying anything, or even asking why she was there? Shamir wasn’t one to complain about abrupt conversations, especially from someone blunt like Cyril, but that was a little strange. He was just getting himself together, though; after a few beats, he said, “What’s wrong?”

“With me?”

“Yeah. Or...just...why did you come, I mean.”

“To check on you. I brought some tea. It should help with your throat. The herbs might bring the fever down, too, but it might be too hot for you to be comfortable drinking.”

Cyril ignored the spiel about the tea, completely. “You came to check on me? Wow, that’s...heh. Nobody’s come to check on me but you. Nobody cares, probably.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Everyone else probably just figured you’d be fine on your own.”

“You didn’t, though?”

“...I got concerned, maybe. Usually you get your chores done like it’s nothing, even when you’re not feeling well. It was strange to not find you anywhere.”

“I know,” he said, sounding disappointed in himself. “I was gonna get up and get to work anyway, but I just...didn’t. I woke up half-past noon, way later than usual...and just dragging myself out of bed to check the time properly made me exhausted, so I just got back in bed.”

He was definitely tired, Shamir could see it in his face. His eyes still looked glazed over, like he hadn’t quite recognized her. He was disoriented. Even against his brown skin, the deep flush in his cheeks was obvious, as well as the thin sheen of sweat. 

Gods, he was...he was really cute.

“What are your other symptoms?”

“Uh...I was having trouble catching my breath yesterday, but I’m fine, now, as long as I don’t move too fast. Nose is a little stuffy? And I’ve got a headache off and on. Mostly, I’m just hot and tired, though. I should be fine by tomorrow. I’ve gotta be.”

“The war is over. You don’t have to worry about getting everything done on time.”

“Yeah, but...I was working like this even before the war. I can’t slack now. Stuff’s still gotta get done.”

Shamir sighed through her nose. She had condoned his intense work ethic, even encouraged it, ever since she first met him. She knew how important it was to repay debts, to keep yourself busy. But it was nice to see the normally tireless Cyril bed-ridden, looking as innocent as ever and twice as defenseless.

Cyril pulled his shirt away from his chest again and again, as if to fan himself, and Shamir took notice of how sweaty it was. Then, her impulse control began to crumble. “Do you have a cloth handy?”

“A cloth? For what?”

“You need to dry yourself off,” Shamir said, standing up and looking around his room. He didn’t even need to point one out to her; she saw one folded neatly atop his dresser, and went to pick it up. It was slightly damp. “This one’s clean, right?”

Cyril sat up, his hand flying to his head as he did. Was he so ill that even sitting up made him dizzy? “Y-yeah, I already wiped myself down earlier. Basin’s by the door, too.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I dunno...but, really, Shamir, don’t worry about it. I’ll do it later...”

“Cyril, you’re hardly functional. This’ll be hard for you to do. Just let me handle it. Now, take that shirt off."

Shamir figured Cyril would be shy about it, but his flustered, stammering reaction was even more satisfying than she'd first imagined. "In...in front of you? You're not going to turn around, or anything?"

*Why would I turn around? I'm going to see you when I wipe you down, anyway, Cyril."

"I can do it myself, really."

But Shamir wasn't taking no for an answer. One stern look from her had him peeling the wet shirt away from his chest. He was a little out of sorts, getting his head and arms tangled in the shirt as he took it off. Even while he was sick, it seemed like he couldn’t stand a mess; he neatly folded the shirt, then set it on his nightstand. Shamir hadn’t seen his bare chest since he first came to the monastery, and had no muscle on him at all. Archery and heavy lifting around the monastery had turned him into a rather fit young man, with a fairly chiseled body that didn’t match his fading baby face.

As hard as it was to do, Shamir turned away, submerging the cloth in the basin before wringing it out. The water was cool, and would hopefully do his fever some good. When she went back to his bedside, though, he seemed to be even redder in the face. She forced herself not to smile. It was obvious to almost anyone, including her, that Cyril carried quite the torch for Shamir. She hadn’t intended to tease him when she first came to visit, but seeing him so frail and sorry-looking—she couldn’t resist.

She sat at the edge of the bed again, immediately getting to work. She brought the cloth to his back, first, and he shuddered at the first contact. “It’s cold,” he mumbled.

“It’s not. You’re just overheated.”

“That bad, huh?”

Cyril closed his eyes, which gave Shamir the full freedom to watch his expressions as she wiped him down. He was ticklish around the neck, so she made sure to take her time there, before moving around to his front. When she shifted, she moved the cloth beneath her hand so that part of her fingers were touching him bare, and the difference was noticeable.

He was hunched over, his arms wrapped around his lower waist. He’d complained of a stomach ache the day before, and she wondered if it was still bothering him. Still, she had to clean everywhere, if only to make her ruse more believable. “Move your arms.”

“O-okay.”

Cyril moved his arms at a rather excruciatingly slow pace, exposing his abdomen. The blankets were still pulled over his legs, but she could see the waistband of his underwear, a pretty cranberry-red color. She ran the cloth over his belly button and the area surrounding it, then drifted back up to his chest. He was surprisingly hairless there—she had expected at least a bit of fuzz—but what caught her attention even more was his hardening his nipples.

Again, she ran the cloth over them, that time a little slower. He pursed his lips, then released them with a near-silent sigh. 

“Cyril? Is this alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘m just—feelin’ tired, my body kinda aches—m-maybe I should lay back down.”

Was his voice slurred from the fever, or from his growing excitement? Another glance downward told Shamir that it was the latter. He must have liked his nipples being played with, as he’d quickly become hard enough for her to notice, even through his underwear and the blankets lumped around him. 

Shamir had him right where she wanted him, but from there, she wasn’t sure what to do. He still had his eyes closed, although he was looking rather bashful; Shamir would be, too, if she was getting so turned on in front of her mentor.

She dropped the cloth, letting it fall to his lap. If he noticed, he didn’t react, still keeping his eyes closed and his mouth tightened up, as if he were focusing on something. Shamir waited for a few beats, then moved her hand lower, placing it right over his erection—

“Ah!” Cyril moved faster than she’d seen him move all day, clapping his hand over hers. His eyes flew open, looking at Shamir with what seemed like mortification. “Shamir, that’s—that’s—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”

She couldn’t believe it. She had touched him so casually, and yet he was apologizing to  _ her _ for becoming aroused? Cyril was too cute for his own good. “Sorry for what?”

“I...y’know...because it—I got...” Cyril was swaying a bit, likely overwhelmed by both his sickness and his embarrassment. Shamir liked him like that, especially since it was a side that he would only show to her. With everyone else, he was always stubborn, uptight...it was actually pretty entertaining to watch him give others the cold shoulder, while he melted whenever Shamir so much as praised him.

“You don’t have to apologize. But it’s becoming more obvious to me that you’re not taking care of your body properly,” Shamir said. “Unless getting a hard-on so easily is normal for you?”

“No, it’s...it’s not  _ normal, _ I don’t think? I-I mean, of course I get them every now and then, but...usually, I don’t let people touch me. Not that it’s your fault, or anything! It’s my fault!”

“You don’t let anyone touch you? Hm.” That must have meant he was a virgin, unless she was greatly misunderstanding him. He did say  _ usually, _ though. As tempting as it was to ask, Shamir had to move forward before he passed out from exhaustion. His breath was more labored than before, and he still wasn’t sitting up completely straight, using his hands to keep himself up. “What about me? Can I touch you?”

“Like...” Cyril struggled to inhale through his mouth, his voice still deep with congestion. “There?”

Her hand was still laying over his dick, and his hand was still on top of hers. Experimentally, she curled her fingers a bit, and he moaned, although it was rather weak-sounding. “Where else?”

Cyril scoffed a bit, as if he didn’t believe what she was saying. Suddenly, he wasn’t meeting her eyes at all. “Oh. Oh, that’s...that’s fine, I guess, but Shamir, I’m feeling kinda...”

“Lay down, then.”

Whether he knew what was coming next or not, Cyril laid down without argument. He didn’t close his eyes, though, looking up at Shamir with the same hazy face as before. Shamir moved the cloth off of him completely, and when she touched him next, the only thing between them was the fabric of his underwear. Shamir decided to rectify that, pulling his shaft through his fly to see his full length.

Cyril threw an arm over his face when Shamir first touched him, sucking in a shaky breath. She couldn’t help but notice the little cough that he let out as he exhaled. “You’re gonna get sick,” he said, punctuated with a deep sniff.

“I don’t get sick easily. And when I do, I’m certainly not laid up like this.” Shamir pressed a thumb up against his head and squeezed out the bit of pre-cum that had formed there, before starting to move her hand. “Gods, look at you, Cyril. You’re really a mess, huh?”

“I don’t usually get like this either...you’ve never seen me get sick like this.”

She hadn’t. And, boy, she had been missing out. “Nothing wrong with it. You have a habit of spreading yourself thin and not letting anyone help you—this is just a sign that you need to relax.”

“I-I  _ am _ relaxed!” He couldn’t have possibly been more high-strung. Shamir put her hand on his chest, and he startled a bit, his hand weakly clenching into a fist. She touched his nipple again, that time more deliberate, and he finally gave her a genuine moan, lifting his body into her hands. “Sorry...”

Telling him not to apologize would have been pointless. It would have been much easier to keep going until he was unable to speak at all. She decided to test his pain tolerance a bit, rolling one of his nipples between her fingers. He moaned again, a little higher that time. Pleased with his performance, Shamir stroked him faster. Him covering his face soured the moment a bit, though. “Move your arm, Cyril.”

“Huh? Oh. Okay...”

Sluggishly, Cyril dragged his arm off of his face and let it fall to the bed. His eyes had been closed under it. That was fine; just getting a good look at his red, sweaty face, both conflicted and pleased, was enough for Shamir to be satisfied. Keeping that image in her mind, she leaned over him, brushing her tongue over the same nipple that she’d been fondling. She had taken him by surprise, since his eyes had been closed, but he didn’t complain, and he didn’t—or couldn’t—move to stop her.

There was a faint taste of sweat, even though she’d wiped him off. It seemed like he had already started sweating again, and his skin was still warm, even to her tongue. She wrapped her lips around his nipple, then scraped it with her teeth when she didn’t get a reaction she deemed strong enough. Oh, how tempting it was to climb into his lap and ride him—he already seemed rather frail, though, and doing much more than she was already doing was liable to make him faint.

Listening to him pant, struggling to keep up with his own breath, was far too much of a turn on for her. The only thing that was hotter was the way his body was laid out on his bed, almost useless to him with its exhaustion and weight. Again, she thought about how easy it would be to push him over, pin him down. He surely would have let her even before he fell ill, but it was even better seeing the boy she’d watched grow so strong become so incapacitated. 

She wondered how good it could possibly feel for him. Sure, he definitely liked her, but Shamir wondered if the utter misery of his cold somewhat impeded the joy of having his crush fondle him. The idea that he did, that he was wrestling with feeling terrible and feeling like he was flying, made Shamir hold him a little tighter, use a bit more teeth as she kissed his chest.

Leaning over him was a bit rough on her back, so she sat up straight again, instead using her hand to play with his nipples again. He had opened his eyes again, and he was torn between looking at her face and watching her stroke him.

“I’m either dreaming or dying,” Cyril said, sounding almost completely serious.

“This is what you dream about, then?”

“S-sometimes...”

He must have been too out of sorts to lie. Shamir found his confession sweet, though, and rewarded him with a faster pump of her hand. He had grown harder even as she was stroking him, and she was rather impressed by his full length, even the slight curve in it. She could imagine him doing exactly what she was doing, hand wet with spit, desperately thinking about Shamir as he jerked himself to completion. Shamir wasn’t particularly obsessed with the idea of someone being in love with her—no, it was the desperation, the way he lowered himself so easily just to feel her.

Shamir reached up, moved his hair out of his face to watch him more closely. Even though his reactions were stifled by his exhaustion, it was still obvious that he was close to finishing. It was cute, that he couldn’t hold it back any longer. He probably wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes inside of her. Even that might have turned her on, getting on top of him and feeling him cum inside of her, only for her to keep riding—

“Shamir, wait—”

She chuckled at his futile attempt to hold back. The mess that he left on her hand somehow managed to be warmer than his feverish skin, seeping between her fingers and trickling down his balls. He had quite a lot for her, too, his breath getting even more shallow as he went. Shamir didn’t mind the mess, but she was rather amused when she shifted her hand and watched the last few drops of his cum land on his own stomach.

A whine started to accompany each of his sighs. Even if he was overstimulated, could he even raise his arms or fix his lips to get her to stop? She toyed with the idea of continuing to touch him, seeing how much he could take, but when he groaned with what sounded like discomfort, squirming, she pulled back.

A mouth like his looked perfect to press her fingers against, let him lick her clean...and again, she had to stop herself. As arousing as it was to watch him look so feeble and pitiful, she was sure even he had his limits, especially when he was under the weather. She retrieved the discarded cloth from the floor, wiping off her hand before cleaning up his stomach.

“Cyril? Are you alright?”

“I...I think...feels like somethin’ is sittin’ on my chest...”

Of course. He did seem a little out of breath. This wasn’t the sort of aftercare Shamir usually had to deal with, but she didn’t want him to suffer. “Do you want me to fetch you a glass of water?”

“Nah. Just need to...” Cyril sighed, which sounded like the first deep breath he’d taken since Shamir had started. “I’m good.” What a relief. It would have been disastrous if she had to haul him to Manuela’s office and explain what had happened. Cyril still looked troubled, though, and voiced his concerns after a bit of floundering. “Do...do you want me to do something for you, Shamir? I don’t really know much, but...”

“You’re not feeling well,” Shamir said, quite simply.

“So? What about when I’m better?” Even when he was worn, there was still a certain excitement in his eyes that started her thinking about what she could with him—to him. Shamir averted her gaze, trying to gather her thoughts, but he kept speaking. “Unless...you don’t want to. That’s fine, as long as—”

“Just focus on getting better, and we’ll discuss everything else after, alright? Get some rest. You need it.”

Shamir did him the favor of pulling his blankets up to his chest, and he grabbed them, rolling onto his side to face her fully. He already looked sleepy, like he could hardly keep his eyes open. “Okay...if it’s not too much to ask, though, could you—could you maybe check on me later, too?”

If it were any other time, or any other person, Shamir might’ve been reluctant. But he had grown on her over the years, and hearing him say earlier that nobody else had even come to look after him—and for someone as independent and standoffish as him to  _ ask _ for it—that made things different.

“After dinner,” Shamir finally said.

“Really? Alright. If I’m asleep, just...just wake me up. Thanks a lot, Shamir.”

“You ought to be asleep. Really, get some rest.” Shamir adjusted his hair again, moving it away from his sticky face. His eyes followed her hand until she pulled away. “Good night, Cyril.”

“G’night...”

Walking out of his door and closing the door behind her should have felt like a weight off of her shoulders. She had already told herself a dozen times over that getting attached to anyone, especially someone who was already so enamored with her, was a bad idea. So, leaving Cyril behind should have been the best-case scenario for her. However, contrary to her logical thought, she almost felt guilty leaving him behind. Just like he was always saying, she had work to do, but knowing that Cyril was laying in his bed, tired and lonely, tugged at her heartstrings. Especially after she’d taken what she wanted from him with such little hesitation...

Shamir closed her eyes, trying to reset her mind, then looked at her watch once she’d opened them.  _ After dinner. We’ll think about it after dinner. _

**Author's Note:**

> i write cyrilmir again except this time, he STILL doesnt get to actually fuck her. because i am mean


End file.
